


Magic Words

by Serpenscript



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward apologies, Banter, Cock Rings, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Orgasm Denial, PWP, Short One Shot, Teasing, Top!Harry, bottom!Snape, make-up sex, poetic!sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24515734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpenscript/pseuds/Serpenscript
Summary: Severus is a bastard at times, but Harry knows how to make him say the magic words. A drabble that grew too long to be called a drabble, prompt was "Does that hurt?"
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 6
Kudos: 251





	1. Chapter 1

Severus sulks as his lover moves around the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. 

Harry is a gay man's wet dream, wearing only an apron that displays the firm, round globes of his arse and the quidditch-toned thighs to great effect. The way he bends over the table (stretched out and on his toes, back arched, pert bum in the air) as he plays at wiping the far side clean with a cloth - when a spell would do - would drive any man of his persuasion insane. 

Especially when he knows that what is hidden under that cheeky apron is even better than the delectable backside on view, and it has been more than a _week_ since he's ridden his lover's cock. A week he's been denied that pleasure - or any pleasure at all. Harry managed to spell a **U-No-Cum** ring on him while he slept, and he is alternately furious and admirous of Potter's cunning. 

If he is being honest with himself - reluctantly - he can admit he'd been a prat to Harry. Hadn't ought to have mocked his cooking, or his choice of clothing, or his taste in friends, or his inability to brew a single potion successfully. 

Especially not in one night. 

And _especially_ not during their anniversary dinner. 

So he'd been a complete and _utter_ prat, and he deserves to be blue-balled until he apologizes. That's…..fair, he supposes. 

But dammit, he _isn't a nice man!_ He's never pretended to be! He was and still _is_ the bane of students everywhere, in addition to being a successful spy and Potions Master! He has every reason to have high standards!

Except he is horribly, _desperately_ horny. It is absolutely _Slytherin_ of Harry to torment him with a different sexy outfit every evening, prancing around their quarters half dressed, often sporting that deliciously _thick_ erection that makes him feel _empty _just thinking about it….__

__So of course, he's thinking about it - how can he not, when Potter is _wanking right in front of him _with a smug little smile? But _dear Merlin_ , his balls ache. He wants Harry to bend him over the table and take him, right now. He wants to apologize without words, the way he's always done, the not-quite-apology way he's pulled off by dint of being a bastard. ___ _

____His mouth opens in a soundless groan when he sees a bead of precome at the tip of Harry's cock. He could settle for a blowjob, too, take Harry deep into his mouth, and it's a _torment_ because he is in the doghouse until he apologizes. He's become quite good at 'apologising' on his knees, his mouth on Harry's cock; easier to perform than to speak, and Harry seldom remains angry when Severus swallows him deep and sucks his orgasm from him._ _ _ _

_____Two words_. It might as well be the Cruciatus for how it's making him tremble. Or maybe it's just the way Harry is tipping his head back in pleasure as he strokes himself. Taunting him, just out of reach, his ultimatum an invisible demand. _ _ _ _

____Severus leans forward as Harry's hand disturbs the drop of precome, smears it over the glans with a little roll of his hips, and Severus breaks, sliding from his chair to his knees. "I'm sorry," he rasps._ _ _ _

____Harry smiles and, with his free hand, strokes the hair back from his face, and Severus realizes he is panting with exertion._ _ _ _

____"Did that hurt?" Harry teases, tightening his fingers in Snape's hair and tugging so Severus has to look up, has to meet his eyes. "Was it worth the week of blue-balling yourself because of two simple words?"_ _ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

Severus bares his teeth half-heartedly. "Shut up and _fuck_ me - and so help me, if that damned ring isn't off before you finish, you'll be the one blue-balled next!" 

"Who's to say you can even last that long?" Harry taunts, but he pulls Severus up from his knees, and tugs him out of the kitchen and towards their bedroom. 

"You could have fucked me on the table," Severus protested; he'd pictured it, as Harry had made a pretense of cleaning in the ridiculously revealing apron. How the table would be just the right height, how the edge of the table would dig into his hips as he gripped the edge of the table - "I don't need foreplay, I've been _ready_ all week!" 

Harry looks over his shoulder, and his expression almost makes Snape's knees buckle. "Oh no, I've had a _week_ to make plans," he practically purrs as he leads into the bedroom. "Make-up sex is supposed to be _fantastic_ \- and I fully intend to take you apart so thoroughly that you forget your own name. _And_ fuck you so hard that you walk funny tomorrow." 

Severus whimpers even as he willingly surrenders to Harry's fierce kiss. He lets his mouth be plundered and claimed, moans into the teeth that worry his lower lip, allows himself to be spun around. Harry's hands squeeze his hips as he kisses, until the bed bumps against the back of his legs and he topples, Harry on top of him. 

He groans and arches when Harry's impatient fingers tear his shirt open and stroke across his skin, the touches gentle where the kiss was harsh and controlling. Harry is a contrast of extremes in the bedroom, and Severus ignites under his attention, a mere man in the presence of a supernova. His nipples seem hyper-sensitive under the way Harry explores him, the tan circles drawing into tight nubs under warm breath and soft lips; he writhes under tongue and teeth and fingers, desperate for everything, anything, for _Harry_.

He melts under teasing touches, light caresses, the brush of fingers against his inner thighs - he doesn't remember when or how his pants and trousers disappeared, but he is glad they are gone, spreading his legs. He keens when he feels fingers breeching him, lifts his hips and tries to impale himself and begs for more. He could be taken a hundred times, a _thousand_ , and he will still want more. But Harry is slow, careful here where he was wild before (and will be, again); his fingers are tireless, working him from an ember to a firestorm of need, playing against his prostate until he thrashes and swears at his lover. A litany of pleading and broken compliments spill from his mouth, until Harry decides he is _ready_. 

He has always been ready for Harry. Will _always_ be ready for Harry. But he loses the words to say so when Harry's cock presses into him, and closes his eyes and drowns in the hot, heady stretch of penetration, the glorious fullness, the _rightness_ of being filled and joined. He basks in the way Harry's face goes slack when he clenches; the fiery, intense heat in the emerald eyes when he whispers his lover's name as Harry sheaths himself in one glorious surge of movement, and Severus loses himself to the toe-curling friction as Harry pulls back and thrusts again, _harder_ , until his body is incandescent. The bed shakes with the wildness of their lovemaking, their fingers leave bruises on pale skin and dusky skin, and the slap of skin against skin blends with groans and whines and gasping breaths. 

Harry slams into him and he arches and rises to meet each thrust, panting and groaning, hands grasping, as he is burned from the inside out, _incinerated_ as he comes howling, tethered to earth only by the man who drives him to such extremes. He is the man; he is the phoenix, he is at the heart of the firestorm called Harry. He dies again and again, _la petite mort_ , and revives in the safety of his lover's arms, human for a little while again. 

Eventually, he remembers to breathe, as well. 

Some time later, he even manages to spell them both clean; while he savors the lingering ache that only a proper buggering produces, he enjoys less the feel of drying seed on his stomach and thighs, and even less on the bedding. 

Harry stirs enough to open his arms so Severus can resettle himself draped half over his lover, his ear pressed to Harry's chest, where the soothing thump of his heartbeat reminds him he is alive, and well: they both are. 

Severus has no illusions that he would be, without Harry. Harry has been his anchor for his entire adult life. "I am difficult sometimes," he whispers. Harry doesn't answer, but he knows he is listening, because a hand moves up to pet his hair. "I am - a bastard. I hate apologising." 

"Mmm. Yes." 

"I'm sorry." 

"I know. I love you, too."


	3. Chapter 3

He is delightfully sore when he wakes; the sun is just beginning to peek through the window, a pale muddy pink. He clenches a bit, and contemplates waking up his lover by riding him; he's not sure he's been fucked enough to walk _funny_ , yet. 

He feels a stab of anger when he discovers the revoltingly purple cock-ring is still around his prick, but the memory of apologizing is still fresh in his head. Instead he bites back the accusation he wants to hurl at his lover and tries to remove it himself - and it slides right off. 

He exhales a sigh of relief, then grimaces when Harry chuckles next to him. 

"The spell on it ended as soon as you said the magic words."

Severus glares at him as Harry climbs out of bed and begins to get undressed, completely unscathed by his glare - no matter how hard he tries to ignite him with his eyes alone. 

"You can throw it out, now, you know," Harry adds, ducking into the bathroom to wash up. "Or you can, you know, see if you can melt it with your eyes instead of trying to glare at me." 

Severus rolls the cock ring in his fingers - without the active spell, it is just a stretchy silicone ring - and thinks about the past week. About his words to Harry, about Harry's patience, about forgiveness and his own irascibility. "I am still a bastard," he says, once he's made up his mind.

The loo flushes, and a moment later Harry pokes his head back out. "Then put it back in the bedside table."

Severus thinks more about apologies - _real_ apologies - as Harry brushes his teeth, and clears his throat when Harry emerges. "I was thinking we could have a nice dinner tonight," he offers awkwardly, when Harry is ready to leave for the day. "You could - make the roast that everyone likes. The one I always have seconds of. And wear your favorite jumper, it - looks very well on you." 

Harry turns around and comes back to the bed - and kisses him soundly, licking and biting at his lips until Severus groans into the kiss. "You know, Sev, you're a bastard," he says fondly, when he pulls back so they both can breathe. "But you're _my_ bastard. And I'm ok with that." 

Severus can't help a little huff of laughter. "I still won't ask you to brew with me." 

Harry's grin is light and unrepentant. "Don't worry, I know you can't keep up with me."


End file.
